My mother-in-law shoved a folder into my hands between the funeral wreaths—“Sign the house and car over to Lydia”—and when I refused, her husband slammed me into the wall like my grief didn’t count.

My mother-in-law, Paula Bennett, didn’t offer a hug. She offered a folder.

“The house and the car go to Lydia,” she hissed, sliding the papers toward me. “Sign.”

Lydia—Javier’s sister—stood beside her, eyes dry, mouth already curled like she’d won. Behind them, Javier’s father, Ray Bennett, watched like an enforcer.

I blinked once, still seeing Javier’s casket when I closed my eyes.

I had bought the house before we married.
I paid for the car myself when my consulting firm finally took off.
And Javier—on the advice of his own notary—had signed a separate property agreement because he didn’t want his family “touching my life.”

They knew all of that.

“They’re mine,” I said, surprised by how calm my voice sounded.

Lydia’s lip lifted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Javier’s gone. Everything goes back to the family.”